Four Hush-Hush Incidents
by vifetoile89
Summary: Four ways that Aziraphale and Crowley affected the events of 'The Princess Bride,' involving one book, one pirate, a little chocolate, and four white horses...
1. The Book of the Blade

**Four Ways That Aziraphale and Crowley Meddled**

**In the Plot of _The Princess Bride_**

by vifetoile

A/N: This is just a silly idea - could hardly be sillier if I tried - inspired by the notion that, hey, what with their plot development, the worlds they inhabit, and the narrative tone, _Good Omens_ and _The Princess Bride_ could really inhabit the same universe. And hence, this came into being. Stay tuned for the next chapters!

Part One: The Book of the Blade

Inigo Montoya, looking back on his boyhood with the sharpness and sadness of his adult years, never could clearly recall the doctor that Yeste had hired to take care of him after the six-fingered man had destroyed Inigo's face and ravaged his world. All that Inigo could remember of the doctor was that he was light in color, that his voice was soothing and kind, and that his hands were always so cool, and brought such relief when laid against Inigo's cuts.

The day that Inigo was declared fit, and the doctor left the house of Yeste for the last time, he left a small book, bound in leather, on Inigo's bedside. Inigo wasn't one for books (learning letters took second place to finding food in Arabella), but this one intrigued him. The cover was well-worn leather – leather that should have served as the scabbard for a mighty weapon. Inigo could just make out the gold-embossed (but faded) letters on the spine:

_The Book of the Blade, _it read.

Inigo learned how to read very quickly. The book, he found, contained sixteen poems and short essays on the sword, its beauty and power, the art of mastering it, its wondrous and fearful capacity for bloodshed. The book gave him the names of some of the masters he would later seek out, from every corner of Europe and a few of the more westernly corners of Asia.

When he ran away to study fencing, he left the book behind him. He already had its contents written in his heart, and he knew already the Kipling adage, "He travels fastest who travels alone." (But this was long, long before Kipling).

ooo

Inigo would never know about a certain conversation between his onetime doctor, and that same doctor's longtime associate:

"What ever happened to my copy of 'The Book of the Blade'? Crowley, do you know?"

"Oh, that? I gave it away."

"What? When?"

"Oh, about five years back. That kid that you were nursing? The one with the face?" Crowley made two slicing gestures with his hand. "You left a book behind for him when you left… I swapped it out. I figured he'd like to read about swords more than whatever you had in mind."

"What – that – that was supposed to be a book of _Psalms!_ He was supposed to learn forgiveness and inner peace! You've set him on a quest for revenge and death!"

"He's a Spaniard, _cielo_. Believe me, learning the sword will grant him a _lot_ more inner peace than thinking he's a sheep to be shepherded."

And Aziraphale had to admit that Crowley had a point.


	2. The Dread Pirate Roberts

2. The Dread Pirate Roberts

Crowley took up piracy every now and again just to make sure he was current with the times, the trends, seeing what the cool kids were doing this century. Just to be clear, he did _not_ take up piracy because he was especially fond of it. Oh, it had its charms, sure, but about three years of seasickness and awful quality rum was enough for even a demon. And when it came to the challenge of damning souls – _what challenge_? These souls were gleefully speeding on their way to perdition, dancing a hornpipe on the way and dragging their mates with them.

Rather, when Crowley took to the sea, he went there to hone his _subtlety_. It wasn't easy.

Like when he took a job with the Dread Pirate Roberts. Crowley had been a deckhand when the first Roberts had taken office, and now (under the Dread Pirate… Ryan) happened to be on board when a certain ship en route to America was captured, with a certain farm boy aboard.

Crowley was menacing the captives, walking around them in a slow circle (giving them a lovely view of his snakeskin boots) while the Dread Pirate Roberts spat out a wad of tobacco and listened to the feeble attempts at begging and bribery made by the captives.

But amid all the noise and hubbub, even Crowley heard the soft, barely raised voice: "Please."

Crowley was interested. He made a silencing gesture with his hand, and the noise level dropped like a stone. Only one captive was looking the Dread Pirate straight in the eye – a strong and hearty boy, with eyes like the sea before a storm. "Please don't kill me," he said to Roberts.

Roberts tilted his head back and gave the polite captive a long look.

Crowley saw a chance. Yes, killing one soul now was a damnable act on Rogers' part, and maybe the farm boy was a despicable scumbag already… but what if he wasn't? What if he was pure of heart and all that tosh? Crowley peered more closely at the captive. There were brains in there – heaps of them – and strength, and an ironclad determination to _survive_. Oh, if _that_ soul could be taught to dance a hornpipe all the way to hell, to live a dastardly life and tell the tale, _that_ would be something.

So Crowley didn't say anything to Roberts, just focused his thoughts on him in a way that very, very few mortals could resist. And Roberts said, "Why should I make an exception of you?"

And Westley took over the talking from there. And so it began.

In the month or so before the _Revenge_ came to port, Crowley learned a few important facts about Westley, but none so important as this: he was blessed by true love. Not a mere infatuation, or summer love, or even run-of-the-mill, last-about-a-hundred-years-at-its-best love, _true love_. And that was a fact worth hustling off the _Revenge_ and telling Aziraphale about.

Despite popular opinion, true love is not a force that is purely heavenly. It has just as much potential to lead its participants straight the other way, as Dante knew very well. But when any of the agents of either side hear tell of true love coming to roost in the heart of some pair of lucky lovebirds, it's the talk of the town, and suddenly, there's a _lot_ of interested parties.


	3. Pure Belgian Chocolate

Pure Belgian Chocolate

A/N: Happy Halloween!

Max – "that is, _Miracle_ Max to you, ya hoodlum, and if you aren't gonna say it with respect then get outta my range of hearing" – tried to keep up with the news. For example, some time before the "Princess Buttercup Incident", Max had just learned that Prince Humperdrrrrr-that-rotten-rat-I-hate-his-guts had picked out a bride for himself. Poor girl. It reminded him that his own anniversary was coming right up, and he should probably do something to commemorate it. He made a note in his head, circled it twice and underlined it, and promptly forgot.

One June morning, he woke up and remembered that it was his and Val's wedding anniversary. Fifty years to the day, the big five-zero. (June weddings are one of the truly ancient concepts. Ever since there have been weddings, they've been held in June.) And he had completely forgotten. Oh, sure, he'd remembered about a month ago, but then he'd gotten caught up in that fascinating dead rat their cat Vim had brought in, and then their other cat, Vigor, had gotten sick and Max had set to work creating a tiny feline miracle. And now it was June 25, and no present in sight.

Max checked: Valerie was still sleeping, snoring loudly. He patted her wispy white hair affectionately, then sprang out of bed.

He was still coaxing his feet into his slippers when he trotted out the door to the market of the nearby village. Now, what to buy? What to buy? Silk? Ribbons? A nice pair of slippers? Those cherry-flavored cough drops she liked so much? Wasn't gold the traditional gift for a fiftieth wedding anniversary? _Phooey_, well, that was flat out of his price range.

No – a memory rose unbidden before his eyes, of his and Valerie's first date, when he'd splurged and bought a bowl of sipping chocolate for them to share on a cold winter day. Yes, chocolate, chocolate was the only thing that would do. He checked the grocer's – no chocolate. The trader's? No chocolate. The bakery? No chocolate. Miracle Max, Chief of the Sorcerers, Galvanizer and Resurrection Man Extraordinaire, Winner of the Lazarus Award at the National Alchemist's Conference five years running, was stranded in the village square in the midst of a chocolate drought, on his fiftieth wedding anniversary.

The old man lowered himself to sit on the fountain of the town square. He leaned his elbows on his knees and sighed, totally defeated. He should have known, with the rumors of war brewing up – so, wait, wasn't this Humperdinck's fault? Humperdinck's fault for ruining the local economy and trade, and ruining Max and Valerie's wedding anniversary! _That crumb bum!_

But even the old Humperdinck litany couldn't keep Max's spirits up. All he knew was the bitter disappointment that he had failed his girl.

On the edge of the town square, wheels squeaked.

"Tickle your sweet tooth! Candy, chocolates, pastries, fudge, all for sale right here! Chocolate freshly imported from the vast forests of Belgium! Goes splendidly with waffles. All quite reasonably priced, if I do say so myself – doesn't anyone fancy a cup of hot chocolate this morning?"

In less time than it takes to say it, Max was up, on his feet, and running towards the voice.

A wheeled cart, painted sky blue with white wings surrounding the label "_Celestial Sweetmeats_" had appeared in the town square. A very tall man with blonde hair and eyes as blue as the bunting on his cart looked down at Miracle Max with a gentle smile.

"Yes? And how may I help you today?"

Max didn't lose any time with chatter: he knew exactly what he wanted for Valerie, and how much of it, and he wanted it fast. He didn't even bother trying to haggle, but it so happened that the price the salesman offered was very reasonable, indeed – while being just high enough to assure Max the quality was worthwhile.

When he actually hefted the bag of chocolate (in tasteful gold satin, too), he felt calmer, far more at ease with the world. He pulled his forelock to the salesman and grinned.

"Well, boy, you've done me a real favor and no mistake. You ever need a miracle, come down to Miracle Max, down south by Three Oak Lane, and I'll see if I can't whip something up for you. You're a real miracle worker – and I don't use that phrase lightly."

The salesman's smile was radiant. "I know, sir. I know. Now go home to your wife."

Max didn't need telling twice. He hoofed it out of that village square as fast as his legs could carry him, down the old and familiar path to his little squat hut.

Valerie was putting out the chicken feed and yawning. "Where you been?" she snapped at him. "I was worried sick, waking up an' finding you weren't there – what's that in your hand?"

"This, honey bun," Max took his wife by the hand and kissed her, "is my thank-you gift for fifty years of squabbles and sandwiches and kisses. Happy anniversary."

They shared the chocolate over breakfast, and managed to work it into lunch, too, and went out into town that evening to see the tumblers and jugglers, and when they went home, they held hands in the starlight. They had a little chocolate to nip on after their dinner. And when the day was done, they even had a little left over. Just enough to maybe coat a miracle pill, if any customer came calling.

Valerie stored the last bit of chocolate in the safest corner of the ice box… just in case.


	4. Four White Horses

Four White Horses

The time was 5:47, and while Buttercup was contemplating suicide in the Royal Wedding Suite, Westley was lying on the bed of the same, watching Buttercup enter the room, and Inigo was paying Count Rugen back for the scars of twenty years ago, Fezzik was wandering the grounds.

Now that he no longer had the Holocaust Cloak, nor was he on fire, he found that people were paying less attention to him. All the running around and screaming (dreaming) may have had something to do with it.

Oh, yes. He was still rhyming (timing). He was also lost (frost).

Panic was all around, and Fezzik couldn't deny he was starting to feel a bit less than easy about the whole situation himself. His brain fidgeted and gave up the thinking to his legs and arms, which had worked many a time and oft in the past. And, as always, he trusted his nose.

Fezzik followed his nose, and it led him to a peculiar place: the stables. This calmed him at once. The stables smelled like stables, but that was the same smell that used to permeate the circus, where he'd lived for six months. And he remembered sitting in the circus stables, with the lions, who had enough survival instincts to stay on his good side, though like all cats they did so reluctantly, and with the horses, who saw in him a constant source of pets and sugar cubes, and the elephants, who were his special friends.

And it occurred to Fezzik, Hey, if the three of us get to meet again, we might want some horses (of courses). And then Fezzik did a little quick thinking, for him: but we want the pretty lady, too, so we will need one extra horse, just in case (saving face). So that makes four horses. I can do that. I can find those. (Follow your nose).

He crept into the stables, with far more quietude that one would expect from a man of his size.

He thought to himself, Huh, I'd have thought there would be more stable boys (toys).

And he was right. The place _would_ have had more hands, except that each and every one of the stable boys had been struck by a peculiar and irresistible urge to get drunk earlier in the night than expected. They were off in Florin Square, and the only stablehand left was fast asleep in a pile of straw.

(This stablehand peeked out from under his eyelids at Fezzik, gentling and petting the four giant white horses, whispering to them in Turkish until they were his fast friends. Crowley smiled to himself, shifting in the straw. Well, theft _was_ a sin, right there in the Big Ten. If the theft turned out to work out in the favor of the Other Side… oh well. Inspiring debauchery and thievery, no one could say it hadn't been a bad night. On the other hand, he had prevented an assassination plot. Shame Crowley didn't think of the long term – and he could always blame the miracles on Aziraphale.)

A/N: And here we come to the end of this little series of anecdotes. It's been a fun little crossover, just linking up two of my favorite books that I thought practically inhabit the same universe. Thank you very much for reading – and if you leave a review, you get to call in one minor Miracle of Miracle Max, free of charge (chocolate ganache not included).


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